


A Matched Pair

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Dates, F/F, Getting Together, Hope, Humor, New Asgard, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 11:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20025109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: Thor comes home to New Asgard and tries to set Valkyrie up with Carol Danvers. His matchmaking leaves something to be desired — in other words, everything goes horribly wrong. Thankfully, it all works out in the end.





	A Matched Pair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DHoffryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHoffryn/gifts).

> This is my first fic commissioned through Pencils in the Margin, a way for writers/artists to volunteer their talents in exchange for donations to charities that help asylum-seekers and immigrants that are being detained at the southern US border. If you too want me to Write You A Thing, or if you're just interested in learning more about Pencils in the Margin head over to [their site](http://pencilsinthemargin.co.uk/)!

A year isn’t long in the lifespan of an Asgardian. It feels strange to return to New Asgard and find it so changed — flourishing, really. Asgard’s king has been working hard, clearly, and her effort has paid off. The people look happy, Thor thinks as he walks through the streets. It’s still far from the glittering world they once knew, but there’s something to be said for where they are now. There are touches here and there of Asgardian architecture, technology, culture — not opulent, but theirs. It makes New Asgard seem more like a home than a ramshackle fishing village full of refugees.

He makes his way to the gathering hall at the end of town, the biggest building in New Asgard. It’s got simple gold accents now, and more stone and metal construction rather than plan wood. Very small and pedestrian compared to the palace Thor had grown up in, but he thinks he likes this better. It feels honestly built – without arrogance or pretension while still being beautiful. He’s shown inside promptly, no pomp or circumstance, and finds himself face to face with Valkyrie across the large main room of the hall. He smiles.

“Thor,” she greets.

“It’s good to see you, Valkyrie.”

“It’s Brunnhilde again, actually,” she says, gesturing towards the far window with a tilt of her head. “Since I’m not the last Valkyrie anymore it seemed redundant.”

Thor moves to the window and peers down into the gathering hall’s courtyard — below are what must be two dozen Asgardian women and girls, ranging in age from barely a century to his own age. Sif is there, leading a girl around on Aragorn’s back, teaching her to ride the winged horse without falling off. Even from such a distance, he can make out the joy shining from her face. Others are sparring with practice weapons, or building strength, or testing their agility on a rudimentary obstacle course.

“They’re wonderful,” Thor says, though the sentiment feels weak compared to the emotions bursting in his chest.

“We’re all still working to adapt to Midgard, but this is part of our culture we can pass on, and the girls enjoy learning.”

He nods, absently, and pulls his eyes away from the window.

“That’s good.”

A pause hangs in the air.

“If you came back for your throne, you’re going to be disappointed,” Brunnhilde tells him with a smirk that seems joking but eyes that are fierce and serious.

“I don’t want it. And even if I did, it seems like you’re doing an exemplary job already.”

She nods, seems to be gauging the truthfulness of his words.

“Then why _are_ you here?”

“Being a leader is hard, it’s people relying on you. And being born into it, you don’t really get a choice,” he explains. “But stepping back made me realize, maybe it’s not so different after all — I went looking for what I wanted, the man I wanted to be, and it led me back home. To my people. Because more than anything I just want to help them be happy and safe. Not as a prince or a ruler, but as one of them.”

Perhaps he’s imagining it, but Thor thinks Brunnhilde’s face softens a little at his words.

“Then welcome home, Thor,” she says.

* * *

As he returns to life among his people Thor finds himself thinking often of Brunnhilde, of the fact that she’s a king without a queen. People don’t need romance in their lives to be fulfilled — Thor knows that. But he also knows that having a partner to lean on can ease the burden of ruling a little. How often had he seen that with his parents? The way they balanced one another and lightened each other’s loads, even when they disagreed?

Brunnhilde deserves that, Thor thinks. But as for a good candidate to suggest to her... He draws a blank. There are few people with personalities as strong as Brunnhilde’s — who could stand at her side as an equal without being overwhelmed. He discards a number of possibilities over the next several days.

It’s when he helps clean out New Asgard’s forge in exchange for rudimentary smithing lessons that it finally hits him. The perfect choice.

Because as far as he’s seen, Carol Danvers never balks at anything.

* * *

He brings Carol up to Brunnhilde the next time they speak.

“The glowing one, right? She was powerful,” Brunnhilde says with a shrug and a look between boredom and suspicion. “We didn’t exactly have time to talk.”

Which is true, but it isn’t very encouraging. Still, Thor presses onwards, very subtly mentioning Carol’s virtues — bravery, strength, honor, dedication, a willingness to stand up for the oppressed, and most of all her determination to keep going even when she’s knocked down. Eventually, Brunnhilde sighs loudly, pressing her hands to her face.

“Look,” she says. “I might be the king but I don’t micromanage. If you want to marry this human that’s your business, I’m not gonna stop you.”

“No,” Thor stammers, flustered, “no that isn’t what I—”

Brunnhilde rolls her eyes.

“Then why?”

It should be obvious, Thor thinks, rubbing at his jaw absently.

“Because I think she would be a good match for _you_,” he explains.

That seems to floor her for a moment.

“Me?”

“We could invite her to visit — see if my hunch is correct,” suggests Thor.

“On what grounds? You’re just being an idiot!”

They circle the point for several minutes, until Thor decides to go for the heart of it.

“Yes, you didn’t have a chance to speak, but did you find her beautiful?”

Brunnhilde shoots him an annoyed look.

“I thought she was fierce in battle,” she replies flatly.

“That’s much the same thing,” says Thor, who knows firsthand the powerful, terrifying beauty of women determined to protect their homeworlds.

Brunnhilde tosses her hands up in exasperation.

“Fine! Fine, if it’ll get you out of my hair. Invite her to visit.”

Thor grins brightly.

“You won’t regret it, I promise!” he vows.

* * *

Carol Danvers stands before the Rambeau home in Louisiana and doesn’t know how to knock on the door. It turns out she doesn’t have to — it opens to a familiar but utterly changed face.

It’s been a long time since Carol was home last. The guilt of failure had kept her away first. Then the shame of abandonment. Before both, it had simply been people — alien people, in need of help. It was difficult to track days in space, to put a number to how long she’d been gone, especially when she began to realize it wasn’t showing on her body. She can see all of that missing time compounded in the woman before her.

There are one or two streaks of silver in Monica’s curly hair, lines on her face, marks of a life well-lived. Monica is forty years old, Carol realizes suddenly, and her heart gives a painful lurch. High school, college, her first job... Carol’s missed all of it.

“You’ve grown, Lieutenant Trouble,” she says, and no matter how light she tries to keep her tone, the regret seeps through.

“That’s what happens when you leave for thirty years, Auntie Carol,” Monica says in a tone that’s dry but fond. “People grow up.”

Slowly, a little unsure of her welcome, Carol holds out her arms. Monica launches into them without hesitation and squeezes her in a fierce hug.

“Welcome home, Carol Danvers.”

“It’s... It’s good to be back.” And then, terrified of the answer, she asks, “Is your mom home?”

Monica pulls back and smiles.

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s home. Even the end of the world wouldn’t get her to leave this place.”

They step inside, and all of Carol’s fears prove quickly to be unfounded — Maria welcomes her with the same fond exasperation her daughter did, and without hesitation. It’s still home. They catch up with one another, eat a massive lunch, joke around like old times.

“I did, uh... Bring something back with me,” Carol says at last.

“A present?” asks Monica, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“If you want it.”

Carol leads Maria and Monica back into the yard, to show them the creature whose lead is currently tied to one of the posts of their outdoor workspace. It’s a snow-white mare with huge, downy wings sprouting from its torso.

“Tadaa...?” offers Carol, grinning sheepishly.

Monica laughs, but Maria presses her hand to her forehead instead.

“And what exactly are we supposed to do with a flying horse?” she asks.

“Ride it?” suggests Carol. “It’s not like it makes any more sense for me to ride her, I can already fly.”

“Well, well, Ms. I Can Already Fly over here — too good for planes and horses.”

“And spaceships,” Carol adds to keep the joke going.

Their banter about what to do with the pegasus is interrupted by the beeping of Carol’s communicator. It’s Fury calling — which usually means a massive emergency, because he’s good enough to be responsible with her number. She answers, promptly, with Maria and Monica crowding in next to her to get a good view of Fury’s hologram.

“Danvers.”

“Fury. What’s the situation?” she asks.

An expression of pained annoyance flashes across Fury’s face.

“It’s Thor. He…” A loud sigh. “He wanted to invite you to New Asgard, on behalf of their King. Queen. Whatever she is.”

“I’m visiting my family,” Carol says. “Can’t it wait?”

“I _told_ him if you were even _on_ Earth right now that’s where you’d be, but he just said all three of you were welcome to visit together. And he’s called me back five times in the last _two days_ to check for a response from you. Just go, _please_,” Fury says, “so he’ll leave me the hell alone.”

Carol’s still got about ten reasons not to lined up in her head when Monica bats her eyes like she’s twelve again and not a grown woman who flies repurposed alien spacecraft every day.

“Come on, Auntie Carol.”

“It’ll be an adventure,” Maria adds slyly, and, well, that’s the end of it.

They’re off to Norway, all three of them, the flying horse in tow.

* * *

It’s midday, several hours after Carol and her family arrive that Thor has a chance to greet them and explain his intentions. They leave the Rambeau women biting their lips with barely contained laughter, and Carol glaring at him.

“I think you should go for it, Auntie Carol,” Monica pipes up, amusement crinkling her face. “Dating alien royalty has to have a few perks.”

Maria quirks an eyebrow.

“Higher, further, faster,” she says, reaching out to ruffle Carol’s short blonde hair.

That seems to do the trick, although Carol rolls her eyes skyward.

“That is _not_ what we meant and you know it,” she mutters, before turning to Thor. “Ok, I’ll at least go say hi. It’s only polite.”

Thor smiles and leads her away, mouthing a thank you over his shoulder at Maria. He directs Carol through New Asgard to the gathering hall where Brunnhilde can always be found, and then heads back to the smithy for a lesson in forging nails, proud of a job well done.

* * *

However, when he returns to check on them after his lesson is completed, only Brunnhilde is in the hall.

“I... I don’t understand,” Thor says. “Where is Carol?”

“You invited her to visit me in the middle of a city planning meeting,” Brunnhilde retorts, rolling her eyes. “I don’t have time to deal with guests during that. I sent her off with Sif to meet the new Valkyries.”

Thor rubs a hand over his face, frustrated. Of course. He should have checked Brunnhilde’s schedule first. Ruling Asgard, even one with a fraction of the populace as the original, is a demanding job – which had been the whole reason he’d thought a partner might do Brunnhilde good.

“Sorry,” he says. “That one was on me. But I can fix it! Tonight—”

Brunnhilde shakes her head.

“I have reports to hear tonight,” she tells him. “About the prices in the city, and the petitions for new guilds.”

“Then I shall deal with that, take notes and sum it up for you later,” insists Thor, ready to get it right this time. “Meanwhile, you can have a private supper with Carol, to get to know one another better. Candlelight, flowers, good mead — it will be very romantic.”

“I don’t believe for one second that you have a romantic bone in your entire body, but sure.”

* * *

Thor takes care of everything, true to his word. Reorganizes her schedule, helps where he can. It’s useful sometimes, Brunnhilde decides, to have someone around who’s been trained in statecraft since childhood. It also gives her extra time to panic. Brunnhilde fears nothing and no one, but… But she’s not really a courtship person, more of a ‘have a lovely night with zero emotional intimacy because her last stable partner got murdered by Odin’s stab-happy daughter’ person. If she’s being honest, which she usually isn’t. Still. She’s a Valkyrie. She survived Hela and she survived Thanos and she’s going to survive a fucking date with Carol Danvers, the human equivalent of an Infinity Stone.

She does take a moment outside the doors to the room they’ll be dining in to straighten her clothing and breathe, though.

Brunnhilde’s outfit is made of a dark blue material that drapes nicely; more flowy than anything she’s used to wearing, but riding the line between masculine and feminine. It’s not quite a dress but not quite anything else. And she’s got vambraces, of course, and greaves. She’s actually a little uncomfortable without a breastplate, but she likes how the clothing makes her look. And she’s the king, so she holds her head high and her shoulders straight and strides into the hall like she owns it – because, well, she does.

Carol’s already inside, wearing a black suit with a red shirt. She looks very nice, and the very charming smile she throws Brunnhilde’s way is enough to make her grin back. The table is set for them with, yes, a candle and a vase full of flowers. Two plates with – what else – fish sit there too, along with two mugs of mead.

“After you,” Brunnhilde says, with a quirk of the brow and a particular tilt of the head that had made several women on Sakaar swoon.

Carol Danvers doesn’t seem the swooning type, but her smile goes a little flirty. They sit, and eat, and everything is actually… Wonderful. They’ve been through several of the same quadrants and talk about their experiences there. Brunnhilde learns that Carol shares her distaste for Xandarian music and thinks Nova Corps ships are junky. She’s about to ask if Carol’s ever had the displeasure of passing through Sakaar, when—

“Your Majesty!” someone shouts, bursting through the doors with a bang.

Carol jerks backwards, and her elbow hits the candle in the center of the table. It topples, and the candle rolls out. When Brunnhilde grabs for it to stop it falling to the floor, it lights her sleeve on fire.

“Shit!”

There’s chaos for several seconds as Brunnhilde tries to put her sleeve out and only manages to get more of the flowy fabric lit on fire.

And then there’s a loud splash.

They stand there gaping at one another — Carol still holding the vase from the center of the table, Brunnhilde drenched and covered in flowers — until the messenger clears her throat.

“I’m. I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” she says, wearing what would in any other situation be a laughably horrified look.

Brunnhilde can’t even address Carol. She turns towards the messenger instead.

“What was so urgent?” she demands. “Is someone hurt?”

“Er. N-no, Your Majesty. That, uh. The missive you were waiting for, from the Midgardian government, about expanding the city. It’s, um. It’s arrived. You told me to let you know, as soon as…”

Brunnhilde sighs.

“I did,” she agrees. “I’ll take it in my rooms, I need to change out of this.”

She’s too embarrassed to say goodbye to Carol, or even look back at her.

* * *

Thor comes to her later, at first eager to hear how dinner went, and then dismayed to learn that it crashed and, literally, burned.

“We just have to come up with something else. Something more your style,” he tells her certainly.

“Sure,” she mutters, turning back to her letter from the Norwegian government.

Thor is quiet for so long she begins to wonder if he’s either left or passed out from thinking too hard.

“Flying!” he exclaims suddenly, loud enough to make her jump. “You both enjoy flight. Perhaps you can fly together, and bond that way.”

Brunnhilde is a master rider. She’s flown for hundreds of years, even if she did take something of a break in the middle and fly ships instead. Nothing could possibly go wrong, and even if it did, she would have the knowledge and skill to handle it.

But she still has a bad feeling.

“Fine,” she relents. “We’ll give it a try.”

* * *

The next day, Brunnhilde finds herself outside of New Asgard proper, overlooking it on the very hill she stood on with Thor a year ago when he ceded the throne to her. Aragorn is by her side. From her vantage point, she can pick out Carol Danvers and her little family as they make their way up the hill. Even from a distance she can see how much they mean to one another – the way they move, their body language. They’re as close as Brunnhilde herself had once been to the Valkyries of old. That at least tells her a lot about Carol that puts her heart at ease, even if the memories it dredges up are painful.

At last, the three crest the hill and Brunnhilde greets them all. Monica, who seems to be Carol’s niece, is especially taken with Aragorn, and Brunnhilde ends up answering more questions about him than she has in a very long time. Eventually, though, Maria and Monica take their leave, and it’s Brunnhilde alone with Carol again.

“Ready to fly?” asks Carol with a smirk.

Her body begins to glow as she lifts barely a handswidth off the ground. Brunnhilde, taking it for the playful challenge it certainly is, mounts up and takes to the sky too. They zip around one another, wind whipping over their faces and through their hair. It’s exhilarating – Brunnhilde hasn’t gotten a chance to just fly free in so long – and Carol’s laughter rings brightly in the air.

For almost a minute, everything is perfect. And then the wind changes. Aragorn’s nose twitches. Once. Twice. Three times. He sneezes, and Brunnhilde has to cling to his mane to keep from falling.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, smoothing a hand over his neck.

Aragorn sneezes again. And a third time, more violently. Finally, he dissolves into a full-on sneezing fit that sends them careening and zig-zagging wildly through the air.

“Look out!” calls Carol, turning to fly towards them.

She can’t do much if she doesn’t want to inadvertently take a hoof to the face – not that Brunnhilde is entirely sure it’d slow her down at all – but she manages to spot them as they go in for a landing.

Aragorn hits the ground safely and on all four hooves, but so hard that Brunnhilde is flung from his back. She has half a second for her adrenaline to kick in, but then Carol swoops down and catches her in the nick of time. They hover in the air for several seconds, breathing hard. Brunnhilde is cradled in Carol’s arms like a bride about to be carried across the threshold — one of Carol’s hands curled over her ribcage, and the other hooked under her knees.

Aragorn continues to sneeze wildly, and the moment is shattered.

“I should look after him,” Brunnhilde says, and Carol sets her down with a nod.

“Yeah, if he’s getting sick that’s... I’m sure that’s a priority for you. I’ll just...” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Go.”

Brunnhilde nods back, not sure what else to say. Then she leads Aragorn back to the stables to check him over. Once there, it doesn’t take long to discover the issue – Aragorn isn’t sick, he’s having an allergy attack.

Someone, and Brunnhilde has a pretty clear idea who, had woven a charm into the strap of one of her riding boots. Which would have been all well and good had it been made of the similar-looking flower from Asgard, and not this Midgardian equivalent with too much pollen for Aragorn’s nose. She unties it and tosses it as far as she can, then tends to her sniffling mount.

Afterwards, she takes her complaints straight to the source – Thor Odinson, disastrous matchmaker extraordinaire. He tries to stammer his way out of it, but Brunnhilde is tired and embarrassed and _done_.

“I don’t want any more advice or help on this,” she says sharply. “That’s my final word.”

* * *

Thor knows Brunnhilde means what she says, and will probably back it up by flinging him out a window, so he lets her be and instead tries to fix things from the other side of the equation: Carol.

“It’s been a complete disaster,” she tells him baldly in a voice full of dark amusement when he goes to speak with her in her guest quarters. “I imagine she’ll be glad to see the back of me.”

“It can always be salvaged! Certainly things have been… But. Something that couldn’t go wrong. A, a gift, perhaps,” Thor suggests, though his voice is weaker than he’d like.

Carol sighs, planting her hands on her hips.

“I do have an extra flying horse milling around somewhere,” she murmurs.

Thor smiles awkwardly, waiting for Carol to laugh at her joke. She does not.

“Wait. Truly?”

“Yeah, I don’t know, I live a weird life, ok,” Carol admits, pulling a face. “You really think she’d like it?”

There’s no way she couldn’t. Thor nods, hope blooming in his heart.

“Absolutely!”

* * *

“What is it you wanted to show me?” Brunnhilde asks as Carol leads her.

“A gift.”

“A gift… In the stables?”

“Trust me, will you?” Carol laughs.

She tugs Brunnhilde along lightly by the hand, to one of the farthest stalls where Thor had helped her stable her winged mare. Then, she waits with bated breath to see the look on Brunnhilde’s face. But there’s no smile. Brunnhilde’s whole expression stills.

“She’s a mare,” Carol offers, continuing to press on even as her stomach begins to sink. “Her name is, ah, Arwen. I noticed you only had one, and I don’t really need her to fly, so…”

“I have to go,” Brunnhilde says abruptly. “Meeting… King stuff.”

She doesn’t run, but her quick strides towards the doors of the stable can’t be anything but an attempt to escape. Carol sighs and lets her go.

“This,” she tells Arwen, “was all a mistake.”

* * *

Thor returns from his latest outing, arms laden with extra kindling for their guests, to find Carol shoving her sparse belongings into a duffle bag. He drops his burden and rushes over.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, frantic. “Surely Brunnhilde liked the—”

“Well, she didn’t,” Carol tells him. “This was completely ridiculous, and I’m done. I didn’t want to even come here, but I did as a favor to Fury. I’m going home now, to Louisiana.”

“You, you can’t,” Thor says helplessly. “You mustn’t! Truly, it’s not—”

Carol grabs him by the back of his shirt and heaves him off the ground before carrying him out the door and slamming it in his face. He just stands there, distraught, for several minutes, until Maria Rambeau approaches.

“You have no idea how to talk to her, do you,” she says with a quiet laugh.

She’s right, of course. Trying to push Carol and Brunnhilde together has been like attempting to herd Bilgesnipe: impossible, messy, thankless, and with a high chance of injury.

“Perhaps you can…?” he all but pleads, gesturing to the closed door.

Maria doesn’t need further prompting, she steps up and knocks hard on the door.

“Carol, open up, it’s me.”

The door opens.

“We’re going home,” Carol insists.

“I think you should give it one more shot.”

“Why? This is— _stupid_, and—”

“You haven’t aged, Carol,” Maria says, brushing a lock of hair out of Carol’s face tenderly. “You’re my best friend, and I _worry_ about you — who you’ll have when I’m gone, when Monica’s gone.”

“You’re too stubborn to die,” Carol insists in a choked-up voice.

“Carol.”

“I don’t need—”

“It’s not about need. It’s about letting yourself be happy. You’re out there protecting the whole universe, but it’s not actually all on you, you know. You’re allowed to want things.” Shaking her head and putting her hands on her hips, Maria smiles. “Even if one of those things is a date with a magical pegasus-riding space queen.”

The joke startles Carol into a wet laugh. Thor looks away as she scrubs tears from her face with the heels of her palms.

“Yeah,” she says quietly.

“Our house will be your home, as long as we’re there,” Maria reminds her. “But you can have more than one.”

“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? I have to fix this ridiculous disaster first.”

“You’re brilliant with disasters. Just be yourself,” says Maria, warmly.

Carol shakes her head, smiles sadly.

“I’m not sure I know how anymore.”

“If you can sass me,” Maria retorts, “I’d say you’re already doing it already. Now get going, Danvers.”

* * *

_I always get back up_, Carol repeats to herself as she knocks on the door to Brunnhilde’s room. When it opens, she can see that the furnishings are sparse, but what’s there is made for comfort.

“Carol,” Brunnhilde greets in a very neutral voice.

“Can we talk?”

After a moment of hesitation, Brunnhilde nods and steps aside. Carol enters, and lets the door fall shut behind her.

“I’m... Sorry,” Carol says. “If my gift upset you.”

“No,” Brunnhilde replies with a shake of her head. “It was thoughtful. I just had a lot of… Feelings. I was sure Aragorn was the last — but now we have a breeding pair. That’ll mean a lot to the Valkyries. It.” She clears her throat. “It means a lot to _me_. So. Thanks.”

Carol nods.

“I never said, but. You looked nice at dinner,” she offers. “In your formal clothes.”

“I’ll have to get new ones made,” jokes Brunnhilde, “but at least I know the style works. As long as I don’t wear it to any more candlelit dinners.”

Carol finds herself laughing. It really is going to be ok, she thinks.

* * *

Brunnhilde and Carol emerge from the gathering hall hand in hand, looking pleased. The way they smile at one another is heartening, and they walk off together towards the stables. Thor lets out a massive sigh of relief, echoed by Carol’s family members.

“We’ve done well,” he says proudly, placing his arms around the shoulders of the women on either side of him.

Maria laughs, Monica rolls her eyes, and both of them have smiles on their faces.


End file.
